M R James Ghost Stories Last Night

Before...

Last night I went to see Robert Lloyd Parry at the Lit and Phil in Newcastle. The place looked sold out which seems to be standard for him now. I saw him in Glasgow last year at the Theosophical Society, which is a brilliantly odd venue, and I tried to get to see him there again, but that one sold out before I'd even thought about booking.

I rang round the places within striking distance around me, and Newcastle was booking members only until 1st November. I remember I rang on 1st November from a train (I don't like using my phone on a train usually, but this was important). I got a ticket.

Parry's become one of those performers I'll actively chase around the country. He acts, runs ghost tours in Cambridge, and appears to have the stamina of a Victorian postman. His winter schedule runs from Kent to Aberdeenshire, the West Country to the North Country and all around East Anglia, and the northern cities. I even saw he was in Crieff and Kirkby Lonsdale! It's exhausting just looking at the dates, never mind actually doing them.

What makes it work is his approach to M. R. James. He doesn't read the stories — he performs them. The staging is deliberately sparse: the waistcoat, the candles, a decanter of fake whisky, a desk with various bits and pieces that look like they've been lifted from James's rooms at King's. Nothing flashy. It's minimal because the whole thing depends on voice, posture, timing. (And I guess he has to fit it in his car).

He did

The Tractate Middoth

Rats

An Evening's Entertainment

Lloyd-Parry builds the atmosphere the way James did for his own students at those Christmas readings: slow, careful, with just a hint of mischief before something ghastly happens.

The craft of it is genuinely instructive. I go to learn. He can turn his head a few degrees and shift the entire room's focus. A raised eyebrow does structural work. His asides are placed with absolute precision — they let the tension slip just enough before he cranks it back up again. Watching him is a useful reminder that live storytelling isn't some Edwardian curiosity but something that still works when it's done properly. It's not hyperbole to call him a national treasure.

Of course, the modern world did its best to wreck the atmosphere. A mobile went off at exactly the wrong moment. The door kept opening at the back, sending in these horrible sheets of cold white light that threatened to murder the candlelit mood every time. Someone behind us was locked in mortal combat with a persistent cough. Staff wandered about 'voices off' (mainly coughs).

None of this is Parry's fault. We can't stop people catching colds, but they don't have to open doors. The point is: if you're going to a candlelit ghost-story performance, turn your bloody phone off and go for a pee before it starts or hold it till the interval. The whole thing is built upon quiet and in that quiet, his performance unfolds.

Despite the interruptions, the stories were as strong as ever. Anyone with even a passing interest in James, or in the mechanics of storytelling, should make the effort to see Robert Lloyd-Parry while he's still doing this. It's worth it.

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